The clouds look the same as when it is twilight
It is just that you feel like the clouds are new
and know that the day is fresh
I sat through a morning like this once
with you at my very fingertips
threatening to haunt me
with the soft, deliberate surety of snow.
And you did. And I embraced you
and all the accompanying hassles
and heartbreak and hassles and heartbreak and hassles and heartbreak and....
I hear crows and coyals and sweet birds
Calling out rauciously or sweetly
and I wonder when I meet people
Do they see me as terribly as I see myself?
Do they see me as a thrilling or threatening or
a thoroughly pathetic interaction?
Am I with the in scene or far off from?
Is that repulsion or curiosoty in their eyes?
The gleam is so similar.
As I sit to the beginnings of a morning
I halfheartedly wholeheartedly wonder
why the words have to flow so freely
only with emotional or biological blood
and why we are so self centered
and whether we will ever amount to much more.
As I sit to the first few hours of sunlight,
watching the light drown out the inky blue-black sky
I rejoice in the absence of ghosts
and in the last few breathes of the night